


Tumblings Too

by pocky_slash



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Bodyswap, Crossover, Domestic, F/M, Ficlet Collection, First Meetings, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Missing Scene, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:45:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collections of ficlets from tumblr. Mostly Charles/Erik.</p><p>Added 12/29:<br/>Chapter Eight: Moira and Nick during the events of <em>The Avengers</em>.<br/>Chapter Nine: Charles and Erik nervously prepare for a new arrival.<br/>Chapter Ten: Erik is bad at email.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hiya, Neighbor!

**Author's Note:**

> Does what it says on the tin!
> 
>  **Chapter One:** For a meme on tumblr: Charles and Erik as neighbors meeting for the first time.

"Hello!"

Erik freezes, cigarette halfway to his mouth, and turns abruptly to his left. There's someone on the balcony next to his, a man about his age wearing...well, a lot less than he probably should be given the temperature.

"Hi," Erik says shortly. He wants to shiver on behalf of the stranger, who's feet must be freezing on the concrete platform. Not to mention the rest of him, which is only clad in boxer shorts.

"I'm your new neighbor," the man says. His arms are wrapped tightly across his chest. "I came outside to hang my thermometer and the door shut behind me."

"Why the hell do you even need a thermometer?" Erik asks. He takes another drag from his cigarette. The man's pink all over from the cold. It's oddly striking. "Why don't you use your phone like everyone else?"

"I think that's rather moot at this point, don't you?" the man asks. He has a British accent, or at least an accent that was once British and has since been worn down, probably by living here for a few years. He's also irritated enough to enunciate very clearly.

Erik has an ear for these things.

"Could you please go and fetch the super?" the man asks. "I'm in 7E and I can't feel my toes anymore."

"I can't, actually," Erik says, just to see the beginning of disbelief and fury flash across the man's face before he continues. "He's out. I passed him on my way inside."

"Oh dear," the man says, his expression falling.

Erik puts out his cigarette in the ash tray and walks to the edge of his balcony. He leans against the railing and holds out his arms. The man blinks at him slowly.

"Come on," he says to the man. "Climb over the rail."

"You're insane," the man says. "There's no way--no!"

Erik shrugs and backs away. 

"Fine," he says. "Do you want me to throw you a blanket or something?"

The man closes his eyes and drops his arms, hands fisted, as he breathes in deeply.

"Fine," he says. "Fine. Just...hold on."

He pushes a plastic deck chair over to the rail and then uses it to pull himself up so he's sitting facing Erik. He makes the mistake of looking down and nearly keels over backwards.

"No," he says. "No no no, I can't."

"Come on," Erik says. "Give me your hands. It's only a few feet. And we're only about eighty feet up, so if you fall--"

"You're not helping," the man says between his teeth, but he stays on the railing, even though his eyes are pinched closed. Erik leans over as far as he can, arms out. He can reach almost far enough to touch the opposite rail. They'll be fine. He hears the man count to five quietly, then open his eyes. He looks at Erik, determined, and then lets go with one hand.

"Brace yourself with your ankles and calves on the bars of the rail," Erik instructs him, and the man does so. "Now, lean over and wrap your arms around my shoulders, then push off with your feet."

"Are you sure about this?" the man asks. Erik's not, but he's reasonably certain they'll probably be okay.

"Come on," Erik says, and the man sighs and then counts to three. On three, he leans forward and manages to get his arms around Erik, although just barely. The railing is digging into Erik's stomach, and the man still hasn't pushed off his side. " _Come on_ ," Erik repeats through gritted teeth, and the man lets out a whoosh of breath and then pushes forward. Erik hugs the man tightly against his chest and manages, somehow, to get him over the railing until they're both on solid ground again.

Still hugging, though. The man's skin is freezing and he seems loathe to let go of the first warm object he's had near him in some time. He looks up at Erik. He's much more attractive up close.

"Hello," he says again.

"Hi," Erik says. He clears his throat.

"I'm--my name is Charles," the man says.

"Erik," Erik says. He still hasn't moved. Neither has his neighbor, though, which Erik isn't complaining about.

"I hate to--" the man--Charles--starts to say, but he's cut off with a shiver that says all he needs to say.

"Right," Erik says. "Let's go inside."

"How long until the super comes back, do you think?" Charles asks, as Erik shepherds him inside, one arm still tight around his shoulders, which are surprisingly broad for his height.

"Oh, ages," Erik lies. "Let's see what we can do to make your comfortable in the mean time."

Charles smiles at him, just a little bit cheeky, as he steps into the apartment.

"I don't think that will be a problem," he says.

Erik smiles too. And to think his mother has been trying to get him to quit smoking.


	2. Honey, I'm home!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a meme on tumblr: Moira and Nick as a married couple. Takes place in the same verse as [we'll all be gone for the summer](http://archiveofourown.org/works/903450) (aka shore verse). Nick comes home to living room devastation after snow day number five.

"Honey, I'm home!" Nick calls out, because he thinks he's hilarious, that little shit.

"I can't move, you're going to have to feed me and carry me to bed," Moira mutters, mostly into the couch."

She hears him picking across the floor, making noises of disbelief, and eventually the couch sags with his weight and he touches her back.

"Did a Lego bomb explode?" he asks in that way he has where he's trying to act like it's a joke, but he's actually afraid it's true.

"Yes," she says without looking up, even as he starts to rub her shoulders. "A Lego bomb exploded. The accelerant was something called 'cabin fever' and the perpetrators have been brought to justice, sent to bed without dessert."

"Casualties?" he asks.

"My sanity, my self-control, and apparently my muscle movement, since I collapsed here an hour ago and haven't even changed the channel." Moira feels him shift, and a moment later the television, still playing Cartoon Network, clicks off. "I really have to pee," she adds miserably.

"Sorry, babe," he says, but she can hear him laughing, the traitor.

"I'm not doing this again," she says. "I've password locked the DVR. I'm holding your shows hostage in exchange for being allowed to leave this god forsaken place."

He doesn't even try to hide his laugh this time. Instead, he turns her over onto her back and pushes her hair out of her face.

"I get it, I get it," he says. "I promise, if we have snow day number five tomorrow, I'll switch shifts to stay home with them and you can go to work instead."

"I'm holding you to that," she says. "I never want to work from home again. You can deal with two kids under six going stir crazy and obsessed with the Lego movie. I'm going to work to deal with terrorists, like a sane person."

"Sorry, babe," Nick says again, and stands, presumably to lean over and kiss her, but instead he curses and jumps, then curses again.

"Yeah, don't plan on walking around without shoes on until at least April," she adds.

"Motherfucker," Nick hisses, dropping back down onto the couch. "New plan: We drop them at Charles and Erik's and take the next plane to Barbados."

"Deal," Moira says, and sits up to steal that kiss after all.


	3. We're out of milk!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a tumblr meme: Moira and Erik as roommates.

"We're out of milk," Erik says, peering into the fridge. Moira raises one shoulder and then just as gracefully drops it and flicks a finger across her tablet to turn the page of the newspaper.

"Not my problem," she says as he continues to stand there, staring at her pointedly. "I told you after last time, if your boyfriend is going to drink it all, you're going to buy more."

"That's not our agreement," Erik says. She doesn't have to look up to know he's got his hands on his hips and he's glaring at her, as if she's not been immune to that look practically since the start of their tenure as roommates. "Our agreement is that you get milk, I get eggs, you get toilet paper, I get paper towels, you get sugar, I get coffee."

"That _was_ our agreement, two years ago," Moira says. "And then Charles practically moved in, and while Charles is an angel and way too good for you, he also drinks more milk than both of us combined, so I'm not buying it any longer."

"It's in the _roommate agreement_ ," Erik says, as if he's not heard anything she's just said, and she sighs and finally looks up from her tablet.

"So are very specific parameters for overnight guests which you have _totally ignored_ since taking up with Charles, and it's only by the grace of my affection for him that I've not called you on that," she says. Erik's brow wrinkles and he opens his mouth to protest, but Moira cuts him off.

"Erik," she says. "You're the perfect roommate. You're quiet, you do your own thing, you don't ask to borrow my car, our schedules are compatible, you pay bills on time, and you're not stingy about communal shopping. You have great taste in shitty movies, you make me laugh, you don't suffer fools, and your boyfriend is precious. If you try and fuck that up by getting high and mighty with me over the goddamn milk, I will murder you myself and my cellmate in jail probably won't be half as great a roommate as you, so I still lose." She turns back to her tablet. She really wishes she had an actual newspaper. A rustle of pages would be a nice audio cue that the conversation is over. "Pick up some goddamn milk."

Erik stands there, speechless, for a long moment.

"I'll get dressed and go get milk," he mutters.

"Thank you," Moira says.


	4. Roadtrip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a trope meme. **fox1013** requested Natasha and Kitty on a roadtrip.

"Turn right," Natasha says.

"But the highway is left," she protests, but she's already taking the right hand turn and driving towards the outskirts of town. She can't help it--Natasha's tone always has a certain edge of authority, not like she's bossing Kitty around the way the Professor and Mr. Lehnsherr sometimes do "for her own good," but like she's just...smart. Like she knows things. Like Kitty should listen to her, because she knows what she's talking about.

"I know," Natasha says, "But we need to rest for the night."

Kitty spares her a glance, relatively sure she won't roll off the road if she looks away for just a second. She has her license, sure, but up until this weekend the furthest she'd driven was down the road to the town center on weekends. She's certainly making up for that now.

"It's still daylight," Kitty insists. "We can go another couple hours. We can go all night, like last night."

"No, we can't," Natasha says. "You'll burn yourself out. You'll get sloppy. You asked for my help to find your people and you promised you'd listen to me and I'm telling you we're going to stop for the night."

Kitty looks back at the road. She doesn't turn the car around at the next intersection or the next. She keeps going until Natasha tells her to stop, because Natasha is right. Kitty has never been as frightened as she was the day she came back from visiting her parents for Passover to find the school--empty. It was still spring break, but there are six kids who live at the school all the time, plus most of the teachers who should have been there and weren't. She didn't know what to do, so she broke into Professor Xavier's desk and found his planner and started calling names she recognized. Pepper Potts picked up for Mr. Stark, and after listening to Kitty's story, she said help was on the way.

She had expected Mr. Stark or maybe the police. She hadn't expected a woman who didn't look _that_ much older than Kitty to show up on her own, investigate the mansion, and then tell Kitty to pack a bag and get in the car.

Natasha's been amazing, though. She's smart and she's fast and she knows things and she beat the crap out of a bunch of guys that tried to jump them. More than that, though, she's taken fifteen year old Kitty's claims seriously, without any even a hit of dismissal or condescension. That counts for a lot in Kitty's book, so she keeps driving until Natasha points out a motel.

It's the third motel they've passed and Kitty wants to know why it's different from the others, but she doesn't quite know how to ask.

It must show on her face, because Natasha gestures towards the vast empty field behind it.

"We're gonna take you out and teach you how to fire a gun," Natasha says.

"I don't think the Professor would like that very much," Kitty says.

"Well," Natasha says, "the Professor's not here now."

Kitty hesitates but only for a moment. She's right. The Professor and Mr. Lehnsherr aren't here and it's up to Kitty to get them back, whatever it takes.

"Okay," Kitty says. "Let's check-in and get started, then."


	5. nap time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles talks his whole family into taking a nap together.
> 
> Based on [this fanart](http://fourteenacross.tumblr.com/post/83161409465/lyndraws-dads-snuggling-with-chubby-freckled) of Charles, Erik, Lorna, and David napping by **lyndraws**.

David won't sleep when the rest of them are awake.

That's not entirely true. He tires himself out of course. At three months old, he can't keep going as long as he'd like, but that doesn't mean he won't try. He's incredibly social for a baby, his wide blue eyes always following them around the room, tracking conversations, trying to be a part of things. It's sweet, Erik thinks--he even babbles at them while they're talking, like he's trying to join in, though he's reacting to the sound of their voices more than anything, and shrieks with delight when something pleases him. That makes Charles happiest of all. He'd been worried since the start, trying to walk the line between embracing David's telepathy while nurturing his language skills as well, and Charles doesn't have to do more than smile for Erik to know what a relief he finds it that David vocalizes with them, even if he's too little to have any comprehension of what they're saying or for his baby talk to have any real meaning.

Still, as endearing as it is to watch him watch them, it very quickly leads to a cranky baby or a cranky three year old or cranky parents or, more than likely, all three. They've gotten used to stealing naps where they can get them, trading off herding the kids and five minutes of sleep on the couch.

Today, though, Charles has announced that they're all going to sit together. _Quiet time_ , Charles calls it, and Erik is skeptical, but once Charles moves from the wheelchair to the couch and wedges himself into the corner, Lorna doesn't hesitate to abandon her toys to join him, scampering up into his lap.

"Are you going to read a story, Dada?" she asks, which is a fair question. This does tend to be where Charles sits when he reads her stories.

"We're going to listen to someone else read all of us a story," Charles says.

"Daddy and Davey too?" she asks.

"Daddy and Davey too," Charles confirms, and gives Erik a Look. Erik shrugs and does one more circuit around the room with David, who's struggling to keep his eyes open but refuses to give into his nap, and then sits down on the other side of the couch. Charles reaches across and hooks two fingers into his belt to pull him closer. Erik takes the hint and slides closer until he's pressed up against Charles' side. David is still curled up against his chest, blinking sleepily at Lorna and Charles, and Lorna strokes his hair with almost comical gentleness.

"He has so much hair," Charles murmurs.

"Did I have that much hair when I was a baby?" Lorna asks, peering up at Charles.

"You didn't," Charles says. "You had very, very pale blonde hair. It was almost white and just peachfuzz on your head." He strokes her hair for emphasis, long and green and curling at the ends, an indicator that she carries the x-gene sequences, even if she has yet to manifest any specific abilities or physical alterations. "And then when you started to get older, it started coming in thicker and green."

Lorna yawns loudly, and instead of covering her mouth, presses her whole face into Charles' shoulder.

"Green is best," she says. "You said there was a story."

"There is," Charles says. He nudges Erik's side with the knuckles of his right hand, his left arm firmly keeping Lorna gathered up against his chest. Erik rolls his eyes and raises his hand, a meaningless gesture to go with the manipulation of the iPod across the room. There's a soft moment of static, and then the story starts smoothly pouring out from the speakers. It's one they've heard before, one he's read to Lorna dozens of times, so he doesn't have to concentrate on the words as Addy and Karl and Michael decide to go across the street to meet their new neighbor, Stillwater the panda. Instead, he watches the way Lorna melts into Charles' chest, her eyes growing heavy as she listens to the story, Charles' hand gently sweeping up and down her back. 

He looks down, too, at where David is losing the fight with staying awake, having given up on hunting down the source of the voice, though his eyes are still glued to his father and sister when they are open. Erik spreads his hand over David's back and marvels at how small he still is. Lorna was this small once, too, and now she's tall enough to get into the silverware drawer and steal all the spoons, pretending she can control the cutlery the same way Erik does.

 _Our babies are growing up,_ he says to Charles, who drags his gaze over to Erik and offers him a sleepy smile.

 _Not too quickly,_ Charles says in his mind, gentle and light and delicate as always, filling Erik with warmth. _We have plenty of time._

Erik might disagree with that--time is going by faster than he'd like, with hardly enough of it to do all the things he wants--but this isn't the place to argue. Charles' head is lolling sideways too, and Erik can't help but wonder if he didn't have an ulterior motive when he suggested a storytime to quiet the babies.

He wiggles his arm free and stretches it across the back of the couch, pausing to brush through Charles' hair before settling it along his shoulders, holding Charles tight against his side.

"You wanted a nap," Erik murmurs.

"Maybe," Charles says, looking up through his eyelashes. Erik shakes his head and leans over for a kiss, which Charles meets, though he doesn't bother to open his eyes.

"Go to sleep, love," Charles says. _Just for a little while._

Erik rolls his eyes, but the couch is warm and Charles is warm and the slow, steady pulses surrounding him--his husband, his babies, his family--are enough to make his eyes begin to droop. He gives in before long--there's no use trying to fight it, not when it's hard enough to grab a nap as it is--and leans his weight against Charles. He closes his eyes, with one arm still holding onto David and the other looped against Charles, pressed against Lorna's side. It's not as if there's anywhere better he could possibly be.


	6. eighth grade prank war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik are the latest casualties in the eighth grade prank war. At least being stuck in Erik's body is a good excuse to shave off Erik's beard.
> 
> Based on [this prompt](http://fourteenacross.tumblr.com/post/76330279013/trobador-using-their-combined-powers-the). There might be more of this some day? But there might not. This is what there is for now!

"We're so, _so_ sorry," Kitty says. Charles has lost count of how many times she's said it since this whole mess started. To be honest, he'd really like to send the lot of them to their rooms and lock them there while he loses his mind. The only thing stopping him is the fact that Erik looks at least as uncomfortable as Charles feels.

Although it's incredibly strange to see that discomfort expressing itself on his own face. And to be unable to feel it emanating out of Erik's mind. When he stretches his mind out, all he can feel are the electromagnetic fields in the room, which is fascinating, but disconcerting given his current situation.

"We honestly did not mean for this to happen," Piotr says.

"But it's pretty funny," Bobby adds. Kitty kicks him. Charles rubs at his face--well, Erik's face, he realizes quickly as Erik's wretched beard scratches at his hands.

"Well, I suppose the bright side is that I can shave this ridiculous thing off," he mutters to himself. Erik glares at him, but Charles is too unnerved by seeing himself staring back at him to pay it any mind.

"It should have worked," Betsy murmurs, frowning down at a notebook. "I don't know why it didn't work."

"It doesn't matter that it didn't work, you shouldn't have been doing it in the first place!" Erik snaps. Charles doesn't think he's ever heard himself sounding so angry. The children obviously haven't either--they're white as a sheet. Charles must remember this for the next time they do something ridiculous.

"You're dismissed for the moment while Professor Lehnsherr and I discuss your punishment," Charles says. "Don't go far."

Betsy, Kitty, Piotr, Bobby, and Jamie rush out of the office so quickly Charles wonders if they haven't all spontaneously developed superspeed. Only Ororo is left, leaning against the back wall and smirking. At fifteen, she's generally too old for the ever escalating prank-war of the eighth graders, but Charles knows she's never one to back down from a chance to embarrass her parents.

"This is _hilarious_ ," she says.

"You're grounded forever," Erik says.

She responds by kissing his cheek--Charles' actual cheek--and then following her classmates out of the office, leaving Charles and Erik alone with their foreign bodies and murderous thoughts.

"They all fail everything forever," Erik says. "And--stop thinking about shaving off my beard! Stop thinking about--I _knew_ you were the one who keeps finishing the milk and putting it back--I can't believe you were the one who told them about those skiing pictures! And there's nothing wrong with my taste in films!"

It's going to be a long day.


	7. mind to mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A missing scene from Days of Future Past: These days, Erik and Charles mostly communicate telepathically.

For all that Charles loved to talk, Erik always knew he loved this more: the intimacy of speaking mind to mind, personal and private, a series of impressions and feelings, thoughts instead of words, easier to get your point across, impossible to keep anything to yourself. Charles would have gladly stopped speaking altogether and done only this if it was feasible, if the world had let him.

It's a gift now, at the end of everything, Erik supposes. It's the last gift he can give Charles when they're reduced to so little, the resistance scattered across the globe in a raid five years ago, their team reduced to four of them on a plane, transient, vulnerable. The earth is dying below them, humanity is on the verge of extinction, and they haven't seen the sun in weeks. There's nothing left but this, the dissolution of barriers, everything that Erik is.

He would have given it to Charles years ago. He should have. Maybe together, they could have avoided this. If they never split, if they worked together to protect their kind....

That kind of speculating is pointless, he knows. And if he didn't know, here's Charles now to remind him, a creeping sensation of warmth and affection, a shadow of sadness, a glimmer of regret, and, in the back of his throat, the phantom taste of brine, a remainder, all these sixty years later, of the night Charles saved him from drowning. He bares himself open for it, takes it in and lets Charles take what he wants in return. They weave a conversation in bursts of fear and consolation and fondness and familiarity without ever speaking a word.

A gift for both of them, maybe. For all that Charles still holds a whisper of hope, Erik knows this is the end. There isn't any place for a ring or a promise, but in their last days, weeks, months, in the time they have left, they can have this instead. At the end of it all, they can be joined like this, minds entwined, as close as they can be, facing it all together.


	8. the mess in new york

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a timestamp meme: approximately two years prior to [Domestic Disturbance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1459864), aka Moira and Nick during _The Avengers_.

"I'm coming to New York," Moira says into her cellphone. She's on sidewalk in Langley despite the drizzle. Her cellphone's not unhackable, but her desk phone is definitely tapped and this isn't a conversation the lackeys who listen to those tapes have clearance to hear.

"Don't come to New York," Nick says. "I'm fine. We're all find, except Barton. And, well, Maria's a little battered, but she's alive and bitching at me."

"A  _god_ brainwashed two of your people and blew up your research facility and escaped with an unknown artifact that controls a massive amount of power," Moira says. "You're not  _fine_. You're  _an idiot_. I'm coming to New York. Let me talk to Maria."

"I'm not letting you talk to Maria," Nick says, so Moira pulls her phone away from her ear and hits "end," then pulls up her contact list and dials Maria before Nick can cotton on and call her back. Maria picks up after the third ring.

"Hello Senior Supervisor MacTaggert," Maria says. "I swear none of this was my fault. Your fucking husband didn't even have me in the loop for half of it."

"Sounds like him," Moira says, and part of her that's been on edge relaxes slightly. Maria's okay. Not that she thinks Nick would have lied about that, but still. It's good to hear her voice. "Should I come to New York?"

"I think we'll be okay," Maria says. "We're calling in the reinforcements. I mean, if you want to come anyway, Coulson had them design quite the uniform for Captain America and I am very much looking forward to seeing his ass in it, but other than that, it's probably going to be a shitshow. Stark is coming, which practically guarantees it."

She's not particularly interested in tolerating Tony Stark for any length of time, and if they're calling in Stark and the Captain and probably Natasha and maybe May or some of the other agents or some of the other folks Nick's had his eye on...well, they probably don't need her. And, as loathe as she is to admit it, Nick can generally take care of himself.

"Then I'll take a pass," she says. "Let me know if anything comes up. Say hi to Natasha and Phil for me."

"Will do," Maria says. "This'll blow over in a day or two, probably."

"Don't jinx it," Moira says. "I'm gonna head back inside, I'm getting soaked down here. I'll talk to you soon,Maria. Look out for my husband for me, will you?"

"Of course," she says. "Bye, Moira."

A day or two. She can go back to work and hold off on rushing up to New York until it's all over. What's the worst that can happen?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a timestamp meme - Charles and Erik from [all it takes is a little faith and a lot of heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1222933), five years down the road and impatiently waiting on a life changing visit.

Charles rolls around the upstairs one last time, making sure everything is precisely where it needs to be, the pillows are perfectly aligned on the bed, the towels are coordinated, the surfaces are free from dust, and everything is sparkling clean.

He knows he's over-reacting. He knows that the social worker really only needs to see that they have a bedroom for the baby and that they don't live in squalor. He knows that this is little more than a formality.

Still, he's nervous. It's been a bumpy road getting to this point and he'd never he able to live with himself if they were denied this chance and there was more he could have done.

"Are you finished?" Erik asks when the elevator door opens. He waiting in front of it, arms crossed over his chest, smiling indulgently. Charles nods.

"I just needed to--"

"I know," Erik assures him. "I know." Charles believes him. It was Erik's turn last night to pace the house restlessly, slipping out of bed when he thought Charles was asleep and eventually settling into the rocking chair in the baby's room. "We'll be fine, you know."

"I do know that," Charles says. "But I'm...nervous. Excited. Mostly nervous."

"You're going to be a great dad," Erik says, and leans over to kiss Charles' forehead. 

"You are too," Charles assures him.

"And," Erik continues, "even if we're not, there's enough extended family to pick up the slack." Understatement of the year, really. Moira wasn't living far away, and as she and Nick negotiated whether they wanted to have children of their own, they'd made it clear that babysitting Charles and Erik's daughter would be good practice. Raven was living in the city, but still pledged to come home on weekends to see the baby. Edie was living just a few towns over, her bakery thriving enough that she had most afternoons and evenings free. Magda and her wife were settled in Queens and had already gifted them with a box of their daughter's hand-me-downs. Charles' grad students were in and out of the house constantly, lurking and lingering as the mansion became an off-campus gathering place, mostly under the influence of Raven and Ruth, who was living on the Xavier property in a guest house while she worked on a PhD in literature at the same school where Charles taught.

Five years ago, on the cold winter even when Charles accepted Erik's proposal, he'd been afraid Erik would feel bogged down by the reality of life with Charles. If anything, in the years that have followed, he's blossomed. In the face of their ever-widening circle of friends and family, Erik's become more nuanced, more patient, more kind. He's as dedicated and bull-headed as he ever was, but the desperation has been worn away into soft, welcoming edges. He still feels things deeply, but nothing he feels comes even close to the love that fills him when he thinks of Charles and that, Charles thinks, is enough to keep him from straying down a darker path.

And maybe not just Charles any longer. Maybe, hopefully, this afternoon they'll pass the last test. Maybe, hopefully, this afternoon they'll be able to bring home their daughter. Eighteen months old and already she's lived through some pretty horrific circumstances, but Charles is ready. He and Erik came to each other broken and helped put each other back together. He's sure they can do the same for this baby girl.

"Twelve minutes," Erik says. "Are you ready?"

"No," Charles admits. "But I've been told that no one is ever really ready to become a parent. Let's go."

They move side-by-side down the coridor to the sitting room, hands clutched together as Erik gently propels Charles' chair to keep pace. Eleven minutes now, until their daughter comes home. Charles can't wait.


	10. erik is bad at email

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles prefers text communication to phone communication. Erik, unfortunately, never really got the hang of his smartphone.

If Charles were to rank methods of communication, face to face contact would absolutely come first and phone calls would be somewhere near the end, above only semaphore and morse code and other outdated forms of communication that he never bothered to learn. The only reason video calls have edged over phone calls in the past few years are because there's nothing quite like seeing his grandchildren's faces while they talk from a distance.

Charles hates the phone. He hates speaking to someone without being able to tell if they're real and what they're thinking. He could be speaking to a robot, for all he knows, or a shapeshifter. Someone not wholly whom he's intending to speak to. While that same silence is a boon when he's watching television or movies--allowing him to get wrapped up in the story without getting distracted by what the actors are thinking the way he does at the theatre--it's another little nuisance he has to put up with when it comes to business interactions or interpersonal contact, another sign that the world was not designed with telepaths in mind.

He appreciates it, then, that when Erik goes away, he defaults to text-based communication for Charles' benefit. Back in the early days of their relationship, that meant long letters full of things that he couldn't bring himself to say aloud, another benefit of text over telephones. Even when they were on opposite sides of public opinion and issues, Charles took comfort in the love letters that Erik still took the time to write him, each word thoughtfully written on the page in Erik's distinctive hand.

These days, letters have been exchanged for email, and while Charles thinks the skills should be transferable, Erik proves that they absolutely are not. Gone are the days of Erik's heartfelt missives. Part of that is the new nature of their relationship--Erik's been living with him, working with him, for thirty years now. There's less need for love letters when they're sharing a house and a bed and a psychic landscape. Technology has changed too, though, and they've embraced tablets and laptops over pen and paper for most things. Charles welcomes the change--he learned long ago that anything Hank gets this excited about is bound to change his life for the better. Erik embraces technology too, for the most part.

That doesn't mean he's actually any good at it.

He's been gone for a week, first to a rally in Chicago, then to a series of meetings in Washington, and tomorrow he'll leave to spend a few days with Wanda and her boys, which has Charles deeply jealous and comforting himself with the fact that they'll be starting at the school in the next year or so and then he'll get to see them whenever he wants.

That aside, Charles is also a little lonely, a little bored in the evenings. Days like this he used to wait for Erik's letters, the anticipation filling some of the void his absence left behind. These days, it's something closer to...exasperation.

 **To:** cxavier@xavier.edu  
 **From:** elehnsherr@xavier.edu  
 **Subject:** (no subject)  
Charles,  
It was very nice to

 **To:** cxavier@xavier.edu  
 **From:** elehnsherr@xavier.edu  
 **Subject:** (no subject)  
Damn thing i dont know why it always does that. I was trying to put a picture in here and I clicke don the picture icon and selected the picture like you showed me and the message disappeared.  
  
I am trying again, here is a picture of Kitty and me at the new Mutant Rights monument.

 **To:** cxavier@xavier.edu  
 **From:** elehnsherr@xavier.edu  
 **Subject:** (no subject)  
Did it work?

 **To:** cxavier@xavier.edu  
 **From:** elehnsherr@xavier.edu  
 **Subject:** (no subject)  
Please e-mail me back and let me know if the picture worked. -erik

 **To:** cxavier@xavier.edu  
 **From:** elehnsherr@xavier.edu  
 **Subject:** (no subject)  
are you there?

And then, inevitably:

 **To:** cxavier@xavier.edu  
 **From:**  elehnsherr@xavier.edu  
 **Subject:** Photos from Today :)  
Hi, Professor!  
  
I've attached some pictures that we took today wandering around DC between meetings. Erik said you'd like to see them, and even though I tried to explain that you follow me on Instagram so you saw them already, I think he still doesn't quite get it.  
  
Anyway, it was a lot of fun! We should totally do a trip here sometime now that the monument is open and they have that special mutant section in the American History museum. It has some cool stuff that's not in the Mutant History museum in New York, but I'm sure you know that because you're listed as one of the main contributors to the exhibit ;)  
  
We miss you, Erik especially, obviously, and we'll see you on Monday! Text me and let me know when you'll be around to FaceTime with the family. Rumor has it Pietro might come by with the baby and I know you'd hate to miss that.  
  
See you soon!  
Kitty

Charles sighs and shakes his head at the message. The photos are cute and make him miss Erik deeply, but Kitty's right--they're the same ones she posted both on the official school Instagram and on her own Instagram and Twitter feed. Still, he spends a moment staring at Erik's smile on the screen before giving in and typing his inevitable reply.

 **To:** kpryde@xavier.edu  
 **Cc:** elehnsherr@xavier.edu  
 **From:**  cxavier@xavier.edu  
 **Subject:** Re: Photos from Today :)  
Thank you for the photos, Kitty. I did see them online earlier, but it's nice to see them again. I'm glad you're having a good time and it's nice to know that all of the money and artifacts we donated to that exhibit have been put to good use.  
  
Please have Erik call me on my personal line when he has a moment.  
  
Enjoy the rest of your trip!  
-Charles

***

Charles writes Erik long emails on the days he’s gone. Thousands of words long and about absolutely nothing. He’ll go on for paragraphs about the tests he’s grading and the film he watched last night, and get completely distracted by a tangent on some article he read on the iPad before bed.

They’re conversational in tone and he sends at least one a day, some of them on the shorter side, one-liners about whatever he’s thinking about when his phone is too far away to text, and some of them five thousand words about how much he loves Erik and misses him and hates sleeping alone.

And Erik, bless him, reads every word of every one of them, sometimes squinting at his phone in the car or looking at the iPad over lunch, and as he’s not quite mastered the USB keyboard, his responses are things like:  
 _ok_  
  
and:  
 _i love you too, charles_  
  
and:  
 _I miss you I’ll be home soon <3_

(Kitty taught him less-than-three.)

And Charles doesn’t feel slighted or hurt by the one-liners. He knows Erik and he knows that there was a period of time when Erik’s sole hobby, when he wasn’t running away from the authorities, was penning sprawling love letters. His fingers can’t quite catch up with the technology, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the same way.

(And sometimes, when Erik has a long enough break on his business trips, he has enough time to sit down and write a proper letter—sometimes scribbled on hotel stationary late at night or sometimes on proper school letterhead with a nice pen in the car between meetings—and then, usually a day or two after Erik gets home, Charles gets a surprise in the mailbox, three of four pages of Erik’s flowing handwriting answering the questions Charles posed in his email or just saying, sweetly, _It’s late, here, and the bed is too big and the city is too loud and the sheets are too cool without you here beside me._

Getting those letters is even better now than it was when Erik wrote them in days past, because when Charles gets a letter, Erik is already home and Charles can seek him out, roll into his office and kiss him and touch him and reaffirm that he’s here, they’re both here, they’re home together. It’s absolutely worth those one line emails.)


End file.
